


catching up to omens

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem is that Ulf’s dwelling on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catching up to omens

**Author's Note:**

> See warning at the end.

It’s flat out shitty timing for a flat out shitty decision in the first place. Travis seems to be trying to secure a reputation for being easy to approach and laid back, so he keeps popping in on the unscheduled team events just long enough to establish himself, ducking out with an uncanny knowledge of when his presence would no longer bolster communication, but merely intrude. His assistants are always dragged along for the show, though only Rousseau acts like he’s been physically dragged, suffering, completely unable to check his facial expressions.

That night Ulf’s warmed through with a couple drinks, general good spirits. The feeling of Rousseau’s eyes on him, the way they always end up when they’re in the same place. Ulf slides into the booth where he is, unsurprisingly, nursing a drink alone, sits close enough that he can feel the warmth of Rousseau’s thigh against his. Rousseau startles, but doesn’t pull away, which is as good a sign of imminent success as any.

“You want to get out of here?” Ulf asks, and Rousseau looks confused for a second, though the meaning’s unmistakable. Confused, and then ruffled, shaken, the way Ulf always seems to make him, even when he’s not trying to. 

“That’s not a good idea,” Rousseau says, which isn’t a no, then, “No,” which pretty obviously is.

“Okay,” Ulf says, shrugs one shoulder, a minute, slightly passive-aggressive ‘your loss’ he can’t contain. He slides out after a moment, goes to find the rookies, totally hapless, as always, keeps his back to the booth and doesn’t turn around until he’s sure Rousseau’s left. 

He has.

*

It sticks in Ulf’s throat like a sliver of bone, sharp and implacable. Ulf’s never really had a problem handling rejection, lets it roll off his back. Admittedly, it isn’t the most common thing for him, but when it does happen, he shrugs and finds someone who _is_ interested, because it’s nothing worth getting upset over. He doesn’t dwell on it. 

The problem is Rousseau is interested and they both fucking know it. The problem is Rousseau struck him down flat but he hasn’t stopped looking. The problem is Ulf was unprofessional enough to proposition someone with direct authority over him, and was confident he’d succeed. And he didn’t.

The problem is that Ulf’s dwelling on it. 

*

Travis tells Ulf he’s going down to the Wolf Pack on a Tuesday after practice, calls him out of the room when Ulf’s damp from the shower, in hastily donned clothing. When Ulf gets out of Travis’ chair, his Rangers shirt is plastered to his back, sticking to his shoulderblades. 

Ulf has always prided himself on being a professional, knows that’s as important as being good, sometimes, so he shakes Travis’ hand and thanks him. Maybe people like Marc don’t have to care, are good enough to supersede defects in the room or with the front office, but Ulf is self-aware enough to know his manner is sometimes the difference between playing in the show and going back to play in the Swedish Elite. 

“What the fuck, Rousseau?” Ulf asks, shoving into Rousseau’s office without a knock, lucky as hell he’s alone, lucky as hell he’s _there_ , so Ulf’s not shouting at air.

This is not his most professional moment.

"You're so scared you're going to send me to Hartford to what," Ulf scoffs. "Out of sight, out of mind?"

"Jordan Thibodeau," Rousseau says abruptly.

"What?" Ulf asks.

"You know him?" Rousseau asks.

"Yeah," Ulf says. One of the prospects, made it far enough in training camp, one of the last cuts.

"He got seven goals his last ten games," Rousseau says. "He's twenty. Fast. Got a lot of potential."

"What--" Ulf says.

"We called him up," Rousseau says.

Thus Ulf goes down. The effect of roster juggling when you sit on the cusp. Ulf’s familiar.

“You play as good as Thibodeau,” Rousseau says. “You come back. But you don’t play as good as him right now.”

Ulf swallows, mortified, cheeks probably gone as bright as Rousseau’s do. Swallowing’s difficult. The ever-present bone in his throat.

“Sorry,” he manages, ducks out of the room before he can embarrass himself any further.

*

Ulf doesn’t really unpack, a mixture of the experience that leads him to know that stays can be abrupt on either side of the abyss, and pure intractable ego (he’ll admit) that refuses to accept Hartford as a landing place, unless it’s with a Whalers jersey on his chest, and even then.

It turns out to be the right decision, because he’s on a train back to New York after less than a half dozen games, though it’s not that Thibodeau hasn’t lived up to expectations--Ulf’s not too proud to admit Thibodeau’s been excellent--but that Mizrahi’s been stalling, stuck, too many offensive zone penalties and not enough possession, and Ulf likes the guy, genuinely, but he’d rather Mizrahi was in Hartford than him. 

Hartford makes him twitch. It’s nothing against the city, or not it in particular, but he can’t handle the size of it, or lack thereof. Had Stockholm growing up, small but home, then steadily exponential growth: Dallas, Toronto, Sunrise, New York. Sunrise was no real city, a blip on that radar, and maybe that’s why he fucked up as much as he did, broke the crude rule, ‘don’t shit where you eat’, a phrase that made him wince the first time he heard it, and still does, but true enough in context. Anything too small and he gets claustrophobic. His skin doesn’t fit him right. He has no easy escape.

Coming back to New York is like breathing fresh air again, as inaccurate as that is reality, stretching out so his skin fits him again, so he can breathe. He’s still got that bone in his throat, that bone to pick, but it’s nothing in comparison to the claustrophobia, almost unnoticeable.

* 

Ulf’s first game back is the first time he ever sees Rousseau lose it. The Red Wings and the Rangers, no true rivalry, but there’s enough bad blood after a century that it may as well be, that the rare games bring the blood hot and fast to the fans, the players. 

“Fucking kike,” Anderson spits after a high hit from Sternberg right in front of the Rangers bench and the fucking ref. Sternberg freezes for a moment, the kind of inaction Ulf always tries to goad out of guys--though not like that, that shit’s off-limits for good reason. If Sternberg’s frozen, his D-partner isn’t, and Bordeleau gets a shot in the vicinity of Anderson before he gets hauled back by the ref, sent to the box, spitting vicious French as he goes. Bordeleau gets a minor for roughing and the Rangers get a power play.

“Fucking right,” Anderson says to his compatriot Wilson beside him when Garza gets a power play goal on his bullshit. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Ulf clenches his jaw, and the entire Red Wings bench is mutinous, their captain skating up to the ref the first stoppage in play he gets, gesturing furiously. When the first period ends, Anderson practically swaggers off the ice, and Ulf wants to knock the smirk off his smug nineteen year old face. 

Rousseau’s one of the last ones in the room, as usual, but instead of retreating like he always does, he walks up to the vicinity of Ulf’s stall, Ulf looking up, curious, once he’s a couple feet away. 

“Take your skates off and come with me,” Rousseau says to Anderson, low enough that if Ulf was more than two stalls away he wouldn’t have heard it. Anderson tilts a smirk at Wilson, sitting in the stall beside him. “I said come with me, you little shit,” Rousseau barks, and the whole room goes still, Anderson’s smirk dropping as he gets his skates off and follows Rousseau out of the room in socked feet.

“The fuck was that?” asks Wilson, aiming it at Ulf on his left. Ulf shrugs, looks over to Travis, but Travis looks almost as taken aback as everyone else.

Anderson doesn’t get back on the ice on the second, the third, and the Rangers bench is a gossipy murmur about it, at least where they’re out of Rousseau’s earshot.

“We got a goal out of it,” Wilson says during a stoppage. “The fuck’s he mad about?”

“Shut the fuck up, Wilson,” Garza says, gruff, and Wilson miraculously does, though anything less than the captain telling him off probably couldn’t have done it. 

Anderson’s back in the room the next practice, though he’s sullen, pissy. When Travis stands in the room after, says, “This shit is not acceptable, next guy we hear it from’s going to be scratched whether the ref hears it or not,” Anderson looks pissier. Rousseau stands a few feet behind Travis, no real indication he’s had anything to do with it, that he’s even really listening, but everyone knows whose policy they’re listening to.

Ulf tries to catch his eye, can’t. 

*

Ulf sums it up to Marc in one of the sprawling Skype sessions that tends to happen when they’re both on the road and Marc is trying to pretend he isn’t pining for home, and thus holding out on calling Dan just to burble at Charlotte on the phone. Marc gave into that urge the last time he was in New York, and Ulf is determined to mock him forever for it. 

Marc has not been informed about Rousseau’s complete dismissal of Ulf’s advances, mostly because letting him know he’s right in any way makes him insufferable and even more convinced of being omniscient, but also because Ulf’s ego still hurts, and he doesn’t really want it trodden on further. Even so, Rosseau still comes up in conversation more often than not. Ulf isn’t particularly proud of that. 

Marc looks sort of thoughtful when Ulf finishes the story, which is never a good sign, so Ulf decides to drag it down a little. “It was hot,” he concludes.

Marc’s mouth twists, and the thoughtful looks disappears, so--success. “A man speaking out against prejudice was ‘hot’?” he asks, dry.

“Yep,” Ulf says. “Don’t tell me Dan doesn’t get turned on when you start going on about gender roles.”

Marc snorts. “Embarrassed, maybe,” he says.

“Oh come on,” Ulf says. “You go on about social justice, he rolls his eyes at you, and then you have hot monkey sex.”

“Hot--” Marc starts, sputtering. “Where do you learn these--turns of phrase?” he says the words like he’s tasted something bad.

“Locker rooms,” Ulf says. “Pay attention in them and you can pick up all sorts of shit.”

“No thank you,” Marc says, prim, and the rest of the conversation degenerates to Ulf relentlessly mocking Marc’s snobbiness, which is never going to get old. They don’t bring up Rousseau once.

*

The Rangers get four straight off-days during the holiday break, and the mood coming up to it is celebratory, almost jolly, the North Americans having the time to head home for once, rather than kicking around New York and asking family to come to them. The final morning is typical hotel buffet breakfast, though you wouldn’t know it by the way the guys are tucking in. The room’s crowded, guys actually getting up and socialising rather than hiding away with room service, so it takes a minute for Ulf to find a spot, and that spot ends up across from Rousseau, not that Ulf planned that. It’s just that Rousseau seems to have constructed a force-field around himself, and Ulf appears to be the only Ranger unafraid to breach it. Rousseau spares him a look when he sits down, and then returns to his eggs. Ulf will take that as a ‘good morning’. 

“Going somewhere for the break?” Ulf asks. It’s not like Ulf can go home for Christmas, but he’s received a call from Marc’s mother personally strong-arming him into coming up to Montreal, so that’s the plan. Marc clearly learned everything he knows about emotional blackmail from that woman. She terrifies Ulf. He knows she does it out of kindness, which almost makes it worse.

“Manitoba,” Rousseau says, not looking up from his plate. 

“Oh, where?” Ulf asks. Getting more than a word at a time is like pulling teeth, and yet for some reason he’s still trying. Stubborn stupidity, likely. Christmas spirit or some bullshit. More likely the fact he’s still fucking dwelling. 

Rousseau looks up. “Not Winnipeg.”

Ulf blinks. “Not Winnipeg,” he repeats.

“Do you know any other place in Manitoba?” Rousseau asks. 

“No,” Ulf admits, then, “Wait, I went to Brandon for a tournament once.”

“Not Brandon,” Rousseau says, and returns to his meal.

“That’s helpful,” Ulf says, half under his breath. “Visiting family?” 

“No,” Rousseau says, and Ulf gives up and eats his breakfast in stilted silence. 

*

They lose their game, and it doesn’t dampen spirits as much as it probably should.

*

In the airport, waiting for the flight into Montreal, Ulf opens Rousseau’s wikipedia page, feeling like he’s spying, but continuing regardless. Birthplace: Dauphin, Manitoba. Rousseau’s birthday is the 4th of January--they’ll be playing the Lightning. The page is broken down: early life, career, 2018 Olympics, statistics, personal life. He doesn’t read any of it. It feels wrong to. He closes the page. 

Dauphin: the prince. Heir apparent. Or a dolphin, a word as foreign to the prairies as French royalty is. This all gathered from Marc once he’s landed, who doesn’t ask why he wants to know what the translation of Dauphin is, but looks like he’s already aware, and that it makes him tired. Ulf should have asked Marc’s mother. Or relied on the fucking internet, anything to wipe the look off Marc’s face, like he knows Ulf’s making a mistake and he’s done his part to stop it.

“Any other sudden curiosity?” Marc asks, driving too fast from the airport. He always drives too fast, but in Quebec everyone drives like they have a death wish or a murderous impulse, so Marc’s getting passed by little old ladies. “Métis history? The nuances of aboriginal self-definition? Manitoba land rights?” 

Ulf has zero doubt Marc could illuminate him about any of those things, and that every single one of them is a jab at him about Rousseau, jabs Ulf has no context to recognize. “Maybe I was reading about French royalty,” he says.

“What you read about barely speaks a word of French despite the name,” Marc says. “If you were planning on impressing him with your knowledge.”

Apparently Marc has decided blatant jabs are the better course of action. Ulf forgets this sometimes, because Marc doesn’t get mad at him often, but when he’s mad he can be a pretentious, pissy bitch. Not that he’s not pretentious and pissy most of the time, but shit. 

“Fuck off,” Ulf mutters.

“No luck?” Marc asks unsympathetically. 

“You’re a pretentious, pissy bitch,” Ulf tells him, because their friendship is based on honesty.

“Dickface,” Marc says, succinct.

Ulf gapes at him. “Why am I spending Christmas with you?” he asks, belatedly.

“Because you love me,” Marc says confidently. “And my mother is a bully.”

“It must be genetic,” Ulf says, then, “put your fucking hands on the wheel, Lapointe!” when Marc reaches over to hit him.

*

Ulf returns from the short break feeling slightly frayed, between the crying, cranky baby and a slew of bossy French-Canadians instead of simply the one he’s used to. The rest of the team looks more or less the same, especially the guys with young children of their own, but they settle back into the routine quickly enough.

On the fourth of January, they beat Tampa Bay, and Ulf wishes Rousseau a happy birthday, not in that order. Rousseau looks startled when Ulf says it, like his own birthday hadn’t even occurred to him, then offers Ulf a small, tentative smile that Ulf almost misses. It should make him feel triumphant, wresting a smile from the least smiley person he’s ever met, or good at least.

All he feels is unbearably sad.

That doesn’t scare him as much as it should.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: use of an anti-Semitic slur by a minor character.


End file.
